^•LIBRARY/?/ 


.—  ^  V 


OUT  OF  THE  DUST 


<£f  tin*  coition  of  €hit  of  ttje 

onlp  1000  copte*  Ijabe  been  printeb 

from  type  anb  tfje  tppe  bisitrtbuteti 


copp  is;  numbet- 


85 


THOMAS    CARLYLE   ON   THE   THAMES    EMBANKMENT,    CHEL8EA 


OUT  OF  DUS1 


VERSES  BY 

MARIETTA 

MINNIGERODE 

ANDREWS 

Author  of 
"Songs  of  a  Mother" 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


*  t/&L.  fl(   t2-~.~)^**^r* 


On  the  earth,  the 

broken  arcs; 
In  the  heaven, 

the  perfect  round. 

— Browning 


775566 


DEDICATORY 

In  friendly  sympathy  you  passed 
Through  narrow  street  and  sordid  scene, 
Having  a  vision,  through  the  dust, 
Of  sweeter  things  that  might  have  been. 

In  rare  serenity  you  saw 
Through  superficial  wordliness 
Those  nobler  moods,  that,  patient,  wait 
Till  love  is  more  and  self  is  less. 

The  dust  of  crowded  life  was  ours; 

You  ever  breathed  a  purer  air; 

The  while  your  feet  trod  all  our  ways 

You  walked  with  Death,  and  found  him  fair. 

And  they  who  speak  of  Dust  to  Dust, 
Speak  not  of  you,  but  us,  who  tread 
Foot-sore  and  gray,  the  beaten  track — 
Not  you — oh  young,  immortal  Dead! 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEDICATORY viii 

THE  TENDERNESS  THAT  Is 1 

To  MY  CHILDREN 2 

THE  BLAZING  LOG 4 

DUST 6 

THE  ASH-MAN 7 

IN  THE  ATTIC 9 

AN  XVIlTH   CENTURY   PORTRAIT,   IN   AN   EAST- 
SIDE  JUNK  SHOP 10 

A  LITTLE  NIGGER 11 

THE  MISSIONARY 13 

MIRACLES 15 

FROM  THE  SEVENTH  FLOOR  OF  THE  SHOREHAM. 

WASHINGTON 16 

A  PRAYER 18 

To  LAST  YEAR'S  LEAVES 20 

THE  ROAD  OF  LOVE 21 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 23 

To  MY  DAUGHTER 25 

AT  THE   OPERA 27 

THE  MOTHER 29 

NIGHT 31 

PATIENTLY  THEY   WAITED 32 

RESPONSIBILITY 34 

[ix] 


Contents 


THE  HAND  OF  A  STRANGER 35 

To  A  GOD-CHILD 36 

THE  MISTLETOE 38 

To  AN  ADOPTED  CHILD 40 

GOD'S  BABY 43 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 45 

PICCADILLY  "FLOWER-GIRLS" 46 

IN  OLD  BRUTON  CHURCHYARD 48 

A  LOST  TALISMAN 50 

To  THE  WOUNDED 51 

IN  A  RIPENING  FIELD 53 

To  MY  GRAPE-VINE 55 

To  MY  SISTER 57 

WORSHIP 59 

THE  SOUL  OF  YOUR  MOTHER 60 

EVEN  So 61 

OUT  OF  THE  DUST 62 

BABBLING  OF  GREEN  FIELDS 64 

NOT  WHILE  THE  RIVER  FLOWS 67 

FROM  ROOM  310,  PROVIDENCE  HOSPITAL,  WASH 
INGTON       69 

MY  DAUGHTER 71 

To   DEATH 72 

PERSPECTIVE 74 

COULD  I  HAVE  KNOWN 76 

To  ONE  INVISIBLE 78 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 80 

UNITY 82 

AN  INVITATION 84 

NEW  FIELDS  AND  FAIR 87 

SHALL  I  LEARN  TO  FEAR? 89 

[x] 


OUT  OF  THE  DUST 


OUT  OF  THE  DUST 


THE  TENDERNESS  THAT  IS 

THERE    was   a    time    when   all    she   thought    or 
dreamed 

Was  that  the  world  might  learn  to  know  her  name; 
When  all  that  life  might  offer  her,  had  seemed 
But  trivial  when  compared  with  earthly  fame. 

Brave  eyes,  calm  eyes,  just,  gentle  and  serene, 
Looking  on  all  the  world  with  kindly  light! 
She  gazed  into  their  depths  and  read,  I  ween, 
That  they  would  guide  her  restless  feet  aright. 

Dear  baby  voices!  small  caressing  hands, 
And  sweet,  mysterious,  wondering  baby  eyes! 
Humbly  and  thankfully  she  understands 
In  loving  these  her  whole  life's  labor  lies. 

Into  her  own  full  heart  she  dips  the  pen 
And  proudly  writes  she  down  such  words  as  these: 
All  vain  regret  for  aught  that  might  have  been 
Lies  buried  in  the  tenderness  that  is! 

m 


TO  MY  CHILDREN 

DEAR  little  people,  do  you  forget 
How  we  roamed  the  fields  when  the  grass  was 

wet, 
Knee-deep  in  daisies  and  clover? 

How  the  pale  arbutus,  in  the  spring, 
Hid  away  like  a  guilty  thing 
Under  the  brown  leaves'  cover? 

Can  we  not  smell  the  fragrance  yet, 

Of  the  mint  in  bloom,  and  the  "bouncing  Bet" 

All  the  old  meadows  over? 

The  "butter-and-eggs"  on  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
And  how  bold  the  "Black-eyed  Susan"  stood, 
Awaiting  the  bee,  her  lover? 

And  the  purple  thistle's  downy  seed, 

And  the  noble  height  of  the  "Joe  Pye"  weed, 

And  how  we  would  discover, 

After  all  other  birds  were  flown, 
The  gold-finch  nest  of  thistle-down, 
When  nesting  time  was  over? 


To  My  Children 


How  we  watched  the  wild-geese  flying  high 
Against  the  "water-melon  sky" 
When  summer-time  was  over? 

And  the  keen  excitement  of  a  day 
When  the  air  was  chill  and  the  sky  was  gray, 
And  breathless,  you  ran  to  me,  to  say 
"Here's  the  year's  first  snow-flake,  Muwer!" 


-/^  -•'•>.    *   _-^rr^  .  -Jg 


[3] 


THE  BLAZING  LOG 

I   SING  a  song  as  I  gaily  die — 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log! 
A  song  o'  branches  that  touch  the  sky, 

Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log! 
I  sing  a  song  o'  many  nests — 
Of  an  old,  old  tree  and  its  timid  guests — 
Of  a  cool,  cool  shade  where  the  traveler  rests! 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log. 

Come,  little  children,  toast  your  feet 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log! 

I'll  sing  you  a  song  that's  true  and  sweet — 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log! 

I'll  sing  a  song  of  a  ship  at  sea — 

It's  mighty  ribs  were  taken  from  me. 

I'll  sing  o'  the  things  I  used  to  be! 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log. 

So  little  children,  gather  around: 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log! 

My  crackling  maketh  a  merry  sound. 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log. 

My  golden  tongues  are  the  lost  sunshine, 


The  Blazing  Log 


Stored  up  in  those  mighty  arms  o'  mine. 
Their  light  and  warmth  glad  I  resign. 
Heigh  ho!  for  the  blazing  log. 

I  sing  as  my  crumbling  embers  glow. 

Heigh  ho;  for  the  dying  log! 
My  song  sweet  children  now  is  low, 

Heigh  ho!  for  the  dying  log! 
I  have  done  my  part,  I  have  filled  my  place, 
And  I  turn  to  ashes  with  goodly  grace, 
And  a  last  red  glow  on  each  lovely  face. 

Good-bye!     Good-bye!  to  the  brave  old  log! 


DUST 

AS  motes  of  common  dust, 
Seen  in  the  sunshine, 
Seem  dancing  grains  of  gold, 
The  day's  dull  doings, 
Touched  with  perfect  patience, 
Rare  values  may  unfold. 
Nor  is  the  grain  of  gold 
More  truly  lovely 
Than  that  same  merry  mote, 
Riding  upon  the  radiance 
Of  a  sun-beam — 
But  watch  it  sail  and  float! 


THE  ASH-MAN 

THE  Ash-man's  face  is  rough  and  red, 
His  hands  are  coarse; 
(Could  they  be  otherwise?) 

His  voice  is  hoarse 

Yet  from  the  ashes  on  his  rounds  to-day 
I  saw  him  take 

An  artificial  rose 

Shabby  it  was,  for  long  had  been  the  way 

It  traveled,  from  a  German  factory 

Through  dealers'  hands,  to  deck 

Milady's  charms. 

First,  on  an  evening  gown; 

Next  on  the  hat  she  wore 

On  rainy  days; 

Then,  passed  on  to  her  maid, 

Thence  to  the  waste-basket, 

Thence  to  the  dump. 

But  no 

1  saw  the  ash-man  shake 

The  ashes  from  it,  brush  it  'gainst  his  sleeve, 

A  sleeve  thread-bare  and  thin, 

And  stiff  with  dirt — 

[7] 


The  Ash-man 


Then  carefully 

Remove  the  battered  derby  from  his  head, 

And  place  the  cast-off  rose 

Safe  in  the  crown. 

Perhaps  he  has  a  sickly  child  at  home 
Who  Eight  find  pleasure  in  the  dingy  thing. 

Oh,  God!     Who  pluckest  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Full  many  a  faded  rose 

Of  human  life! 

Oh!  God!     Is  life  so  poor? 

Are  real  roses, 

Roses  all  red  and  sweet  and  fresh  with  dew 

So  rare? 

The  ash-man's  rose  has  thorns  unknown  to  him, 
That  pierce  my  heart. 


IN  THE  ATTIC 

THINGS  useful  long  ago,  broken  and  rusty; 
Portraits,  forgotten,  as  the  years  have  sped. 
Poor  faces,  veiled  in  cobwebs,  dim  and  dusty, 
And  letters  to  the  dead,  writ  by  the  dead. 

My  children  love  these  darkened,  queer  recesses, 
And  laughter  shakes  the  rafters  when  they  play, 
As,  masquerading  in  their  grandma's  dresses, 
They  storm  the  attic  every  rainy  day! 


F9] 


AN  XVIIlTH  CENTURY  PORTRAIT,  IN  AN  EAST 
SIDE  JUNK  SHOP 

LAMELY  you  stand  there,  in  your  velvet  coat, 
The    lace    frills    dangling    'round    your    idle 
hands ; 

Your  haughty  eyes  turned  on  the  dirty  street, 
Through  which  none  passes  by  that  understands — 
None,  your  pathetic  history  to  trace, 
None,  to  restore  you  to  some  fitting  place. 

The  leavings  of  the  stately  centuries 
Scattered  around  you  lie,  grown  foul  and  strangs; 
Children's  old-fashioned  garments,  gray  with  dust, 
Bear  silent  witness  love  and  manners  change; 
And  broken  and  forgotten,  two  quaint  fans, 
Tossed  with  old  boots  and  shoes  and  pots  and  pans. 

Candlesticks,  censers,  'broidered  chasubles, 

Stolen  long  since  from  consecrated  halls, 

Armor,  rare  carvings,  ragged  tapestries 

That  might  have  graced  your  own  ancestral  walls, 

Scornful,  superior — in  this  odd  melee, 

You  stand — poor  ghost  of  a  departed  day. 


A  LITTLE  NIGGER 

A  CHILD  is  injured  by  a  trolley  car, 
A  leg  is  crushed; 

Long  months  he  lies  within  a  ward, 
Skin  from  his  mother's  body  grafted 
Upon  his  own. 
And  little  friends, 

Other  small  boys  who  have  played  with  him, 
Stand  chattering  on  the  corners  of  the  street, 
Their  voices  dropped, 
Their  sunny  faces  grave, 
Speaking  of  him — 
And  how  he  cannot  play! 

They  picture  him  the  long  sweet  summer  day 
In  his  white  cot — 
No  fishing,  baseball,  dusty  tramps, 
For  him; 
No  fabulous,  adventurous,  grimy  games 

For  him 

And  twenty,  stirred  by  generosity, 

Offer  of  their  own  skin 

So  many  inches,  as  a  gift  to  him. 

One  colored  child. 

Big-eyed  and  sympathetic,  hears  the  talk. 


A  Little  Nigger 


Perhaps  the  injured  boy  has  been  kind 

In  some  small,  now  forgotten  way,  to  him; 

Taken  his  part, 

In  some  old  boyish  brawl, 

Or  made  a  place  for  him,  in  sofne  brave  game. 

He  offers  too 

To  give  of  his  bronzed  flesh 

All  he  dare  spare — all  surgeons  will  accept. 

Days  pass;  they  call  not  on  him; 

Then  he  goes 

Straight  to  the   mother,  saying  simply, 

"See! 

If  my  brown  skin  cannot  be  used — 

I'll  give  the  palms  of  both  my  hands — 

See!     They  are  white!" 


[12] 


THE  MISSIONARY 

A   FRIEND  of  every  man, 
Servant  of  each; 
Not  gifted  with  great  gifts 
Or  silver  speech — 
Not  over-learned  and  not  over-wise 
I  picture  him, 
But  to  the  brim 
Filled  up  with  love  and  patient  sacrifice. 

A  figure  slightly  bent, 

Sharp-featured,  tanned ; 

Neatly  and  poorly  clothed; 

His  pastoral  hand 

To  the  sick,  tender;  to  the  erring,  kind; 

But  see  him  meet 

Waifs  of  the  street, 

Tramps  of  the  road, 

Each  with  his  load 

To  rich,  to  poor,  he  shows  the  brother's 
mind. 

A  tranquil  soul  it  is, 
This  soul  of  his. 
God's  great  designs 
[13] 


The  Missionary 


Include  his  little  work, 

And  he  combines 

God's  plan  with  his,  and  sees  them  then  as 

one; 

Even  in  his  dreams, 
Heaven's  kingdom  seems 
The  nearer,  for  such  work  as  he  has  done. 

The  dear  illusions  last, 
The  while  he  lives; 
He  reasons  little,  grumbles  none, 
But  gives — and  gives — 
Substance,  vitality,  love,  labor,  time; 
Reading  his  eyes 
We  realize 

Life's    lame    achievements    seeffi    to    him 
sublime. 

To  our  hard  world,  he  shows 

A  loving  face, 

And  in  his  scheme,  its  coarse  discourage 
ments 

Can  find  no  place; 

Are,  by  his  very  innocence,  disarmed; 

His  child-like  faith 

Even  to  dark  death, 

Leads  him  all   pit-falls  past,  serene,  un 
harmed. 

[14] 


MIRACLES 

SIMPLE  the  evidences  of  God's  care, 
And  righteous  will 
And  love,  that  still 
Work   miracles  among   us  everywhere. 

At  times  the  very  soul  is  sick  and  numb, 

And  famished, 

Begging  for  bread — 
And  then  as  if  from  Heaven,  there  falls  a  crumb. 

Humbly   a   grateful   hand   is   stretched,    to   take 

That  crumb,   heaven-sent — 

That  sacrament 
With  which  new  hopes  in  the  worn  heart  awake. 

As  miracles,  the  tenderer  moments  come; 

Through  the  hard  years 

Kisses  and  tears, 
Like  scanty  snow-flakes  in  a  wild  hail-storm. 

One  soothing  touch  can  heal  a  world  of  pain. 

One  magic  word, 

Though  rarely  heard, 
Refresh  the  soul  like  sudden  summer  rain. 
[15] 


FROM  THE  SEVENTH  FLOOR  OF  THE  SHORE- 
HAM,  WASHINGTON 

AN  old-world  picturesqueness 
Lies  over  Washington, 
Clubs  and  homes  and  rival  churches 
In  the  golden  evening  sun. 

Catholic  and  Covenanter, 
The  Cathedral's  rising  spires, 
Melt  in  one  heavenly  harmony 
In  the  day's  funeral  fires. 

One  mellow  sky  above  them, 
One  glory  on  them  all; 
It  touches  sturdy  meeting-house, 
And  sculptured  gothic  wall 

The  red  dome  of  Saint  Matthew's, 
And  The  Covenant's  gray  tower 
Blend,  a  silhouette  colossal 
In  this  still  vesper  hour. 


At  the  Shoreham 


And  shall  we  miss  the  message, 
As  distinctions  fade  away — 
This  Gospel,  for  our  comfort, 
That  the  things  eternal — stay? 


[17] 


A  PRAYER 

LORD,  give  to  me  that  lump  of  clay 
Thy  Master-potters  throw  away; 
Because  my  own  so  faulty  mind 
Sees  not  the  flaws  that  they  must  find; 
The  coarseness  their  skilled  hands  reveal 
My  clumsier  fingers  will  not  feel. 
So  I  might  mould,  with  tender  care, 
Some  vessel  in  thy  work  to  share. 

Lord,  give  to  me  that  bit  of  ground 
For  which  no  other  use  is  found; 
With  sunshine,  water,  love  and  care, 
Something  worth  while  might   flourish  there; 

A  patch  of  corn — a  rose  or  two 

Where  only  weeds  and  thistles  grew. 
Of  thy  green  world,  one  nook  redeemed, 
And  shown  more  precious  than  it  seemed. 

Lord,  give  to  me  that  human  mind, 
So  dull,  so  crude,  so  unrefined, 
So  uninviting  and  so  rough 
That  those  who  deal  in  better  stuff 
Have  not  for  it,  the  time  to  spare 


A  Prayer 


Lord,  let  it  be  thy  servant's  share! 
Through  all  its  warp  and  woof,  to  prove 
Room  for  thy  golden  thread  of  love! 

Lord,  give  to  me  that  soul  forlorn, 
To  whom  thy  message  must  be  borne; 
One,  to  whose  self-accusing  eyes 
Himself  seems  worth  no  sacrifice — 
When  he  is  swamped  in  deep  distress, 
And  conscious  of  his  nothingness — 
When  he  has  touched  the  bottom,  Lord, 
Send  me,  with  Love's  atoning  word! 


[19] 


TO  LAST  YEAR'S  LEAVES 

SAY!  Wee  men  in  khaki! 
Oh!  whither  away? 
Rolling  Sadly  my  lawn  o'er, 
This  blustering  March  day? 
More  than  all  my  computing, 
To  the  southward  you  sweep, 
The  north-east  wind  with  you, 
Your  vanguard  to  keep! 

"Grey  eyes  at  the  window! 
We  brown  ghosts  are  driven 
Over  the  bare  earth, 
Under  the  bleak  heaven, 
Yet  know  not  the  wherefore, 
Nor  the  wild  journey's  end, 
As  our  armies  whirl  on 
To  Eternity — Friend!" 


f20] 


THE  ROAD  OF  LOVE 

FROM  the  first  white  love 
Of  a  babe  for  its  mother, 
To  a  love  for  kittens — 
For  dolls — for  play; 
Then  the  nobler  love 
For  playmate  or  brother, 
And  a  love  of  fresh  fields 
On  an  April  day. 


And  then — undefined — 
A   something  sadder, 
A  longing  for  solitude, 
Silence,  shade — 
Then  a  flood  of  feeling 
Prouder,  gladder, 
In  the  red,  red  love 
Of  a  man  for  a  maid. 

To  a  new  conception 
Of  right  and  duty; 
A  fine,  impersonal 
Charity ; 

Then  a  better  standard 
F21] 


The  Road  of  Love 


Of  work  and  beauty, 
And  a  godlike  love 
For  humanity. 

So,  through  its  many 

Phases  flowing, 

It  swells  at  last 

To  a  mighty  flood; 

All  grace  along  its  course 

Bestowing, 

Till  it  pours  its  all 

In  the  sea  of  Good. 


[22] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

IN  the  mirror  of  my  motor 
What  a  fleeting  world  I  see, 
From  my  corner  of  the  back  seat 

In  my  dust-coat  of  pongee 

All  the  background  transient,  shifting, 
In  the  foreground  always — me 

Like  an  endless  reel  unwinding 
Little  pictures  never  stop; 
Village  street  and  cosy  homestead, 
Shadowy  wood  and  golden  crop; 
From  the  sweet,  low,  briney  marshes 
To  the  cloud-capped  mountain-top. 

Set  within  this  changing  high-way 
Dimmed  with  dust-clouds  that  arise, 
I  alone  can  see  behind  us, 
Thus  renewed,  the  road  that  lies 
Past  already,  soon  forgotten, 
Only  clear  to  tear-washed  eyes. 

On  the  front  seat  sit  my  children; 
Theirs,  to  watch  the  road  ahead; 
[23] 


A  Song  of  the  Road 


Mine,  to  read,  in  small  reflections, 
Ways  our  whirling  wheels  have  sped; 
Theirs   (and  youth's)   to  scan  the  future: 
Mine,  the  things  accomplished. 


T24] 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

THE  snows  have  melted  all  away, 
The  dear  sun  gathers  strength  each  day, 
The  wee  buds  swell  on  every  tree, 
And  my  sweet  daughter's  home  to  me! 

The  blue-bird's  in  the  old  fencepost, 
(Which  of  his  colors  love  I  most? 
His  back  and  wings,  of  Heaven's  own  blue, 
Or  breast,  the  warm  earth's  russet  hue? 

The  while  his  tender  notes  pulsate 
Through  all  the  air,  to  reach  his  mate, 
What  happy  thoughts  he  can  suggest, 
Heaven  on  his  wings,  Earth  on  his  breast!) 

The  apple-trees — all  in  the  flush 
Of  virgin  petals'  modest  blush, 
The  daffodils  low  in  the  grass, 
Bow  graciously,  to  see  her  pass. 

The  hyacinths  are  still  more  sweet 
For  just  a  touch  of  her  light  feet, 
And  all  the  leaves  responsive  nod, 
And  every  green  blade  of  the  sod — 
[25] 


The  gnarled  old  oaks  with  pleasure  stir, 
The  wrens  and  robins  welcoffie  her, 
And  echo,  from  full,  living  throats, 

Her  old  piano's  wheezy  notes. 

******* 

Added  to  April's  melodies 

Her  sweet,  true  touch  upon  the  keys 

All  better  impulses  awakes 

The  cook  her  stove  in  rhythm  shakes 


The  laundress,  bending  o'er  her  tubs, 
Huffis  Baptist  hymn-tunes  as  she  rubs- 
And  Gertie  wields  her  broom  in  time— 
And  mother's  moved  to  pen  a  rhyme — 


The  straining  horses  on  the  hill, 

Prick  up  their  ears,  and  stand  quite  still; 

The  plow-boys  whistle  cheerily, 

The  whole  world's  happy  as  can  be 

This  willowy,  sweet  woman  thing 
Adds  a  new  meaning  to  the  spring; 
The  light  that  shines  in  her  sweet  eyes 
Lends  lustre  to  unclouded  skies. 

The  world,  in  chorus  and  accord, 

Unites  in  loving  Mary  Lord; 
And  Nature's  gladder,  as  I  see, 
Because  my  daughter's  home  to  me. 
f26] 


AT  THE  OPERA 

I   SEE  no  face  to  equal  hers, 
Among  the  wealthy  dowagers; 
The  physiognomies  of  such 
As  love  their  bodies  over -Such. 

In   "dog-collars"   of   precious   pearls, 
In  purchased  pompadours  and  curls, 
Their  double-chins  massaged  away, 
And  jewels  in  a  grand  display, 
With  backs  and  arms  and  bosoms  bare, 
I  note  the  cold  and  bored  stare, 

As — lorgnettes  leveled  at  the  stage 

They  fight  'gainst  weariness  and  age. 

But  of  another  world  is  she; 
A  world  of  charm  and  poetry; 
Oblivious  of  time  and  place,    ' 
I  hold  her  hand,  I  watch  her  face. 
Unblushing  in  my  ignorance, 
I  do  not  ask  for  one  small  glance; 

Caruso  sings  for  her  alone 

She  thrills  to  every  glorious  tone — 
She  holds  her  breath,  her  great  eyes  shine — 
[27] 


At  the  Opera 


Each  note  of  Farrar's  is  divine — 
She  has  forgotten  earth — and  me — 
Where  we  sit  in  the  balcony. 

I  know  no  pleasure  equals  hers, 
Among  the  rich  old  dowagers — 
I  know  no  pleasure  equals  mine. 
Who  see  her  lovely  sweet  eyes  shine. 


128] 


THE  MOTHER 

AS  the  men  go  marching  by, 
See  her  forward  press,  and  scan 
With  a  mother's  anxious  eye, 
Every  one,  and  man  by  man. 

Khaki-clad,  alert  and  young, 

Swinging  in  unbroken  line 

But  she  pleads,  with  stammering  tongue, 
"Where  is — he?     Oh,  which  is — mine?" 

The  quick  feet  pass:  the  streets  are  clear: 
Settled  the  dust:  the  echo  dies: 
And  one  by  one,  the  stars  appear, 
And  smile  into  her  troubled  eyes. 

In  all  that  army,  not  to  find 
Her  son,  her  only  and  her  own! 
Then  Heaven  sends  to  her  sad  mind 
The  thought — he  is  not  hers  alone 

The  selfish  pain  is  swept  aside 

She  sees  him  part  of  one  great  move: 
[29] 


The  Mother 


Her  heart  is  filled  with  sudden  pride, 
And  opens  to  a  larger  love. 

The  sense  of  personal  loss  is  gone 


She  claims  as  hers,  that  vanished  line — 
Each  man  of  all  those  men,  her  "son"- 
"Not  one,  oh  God!  but  all,  are  mine!" 


[30] 


NIGHT 

WAR  pauses  not  at  sunset;  nor  does  hate 
Turn,  in  the  twilight's  quiet  hour,  to  peace; 
None  of  its  cruel  purposes  abate, 
Nor  deadly  enmities  at  evening  cease. 
Throughout  the  silences,  the  Rulers  plot, 
Reckless  of  all  but  their  autocracy; 

And  'neath  the  moonlight,  sons  and  lovers  rot • 

The  fathers  of  the  world  that  was  to  be. 

How  sadly,  while  their  little  babies  sleep, 

Women  sit  wide-eyed,  and  in  patience  wait; 

Love  staggers,  at  the  thought  of  trench  and  field; 

Fear  grips  their  hearts:  they  cannot  speak  nor  weep, 

And  hope  grows  faint,  that  once  was  strong  and  great. 

Night  bares  the  pain  the  brave  day  had  concealed. 


[31] 


PATIENTLY  THEY  WAITED 

PATIENTLY  they  waited, 
Till,  the  months  completed, 
They  might  see  your  eyes; 
Little  azure  blossoms 
Lifted  from  their  bosoms, 
Fallen  from  the  skies. 

Now  their  souls  are  yearning 
For  your  quick  returning, 
With  what  patient  pain! 
Brave  and  uncomplaining, 
To  their  fears  maintaining, 
You  will  come  again! 

While  your  young  feet  wander, 
Theirs,  to  pray,  and  ponder 

All  the  meaning  strange 

Yesterdays — to-morrows — 
Joys  and  fears  and  sorrows — 
Birth  and  death  and  change! 

All  earth's  mothers,  giving 
Sons  and  substance,  living 
F32] 


Patiently  They  Waited 


Underneath  the  rod; 
All  red  woe  assuaging, 
War  with  evil  waging, 
Bind  the  world  to  God. 


[33] 


W 


RESPONSIBILITY 
(Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?) 
E  cannot  bind  our  influence:  it  will  roll, 


A  steady  stream,  o'er-leaping  our  control, 
And  touching  lives  of  which  we  never  dream. 
It  pauses  not,  nor  dies:  indeed,  't  would  seem 
The  one  side  infinite,  of  this  poor  life: 
Though  we  may  pass  beyond  the  stress  and  strife, 

Far  out  of  reach,  ourselves,  forgotten — gone 

The  work  we  did,  or  great  or  small,  lives  on. 
It  must. 

The  influence  of  other  men, 
We  pass  unconsciously  along,  and  then, 
By  some  strange  process,  imperceptibly, 
Or  in  a  swift  and  terrible  degree, 
Are  all  men  harmed  or  healed,  unclean  or  pure. 
Each,  is  his  brother's  keeper. 

This   is   sure. 

Unto  this  moving  flood,  not  one  may  say, 
As  spoke  the  Danish  King,  one  by-gone  day, 
To  the  wild  ocean,  seething  at  his  feet — 
To  the  white  surf,  that  rolled  his  voice  to  greet — 
"Ho!    Thou  in-coming  Tide!    Here  be  thou  stayed! 
Here,  at  my  will,  be  thy  proud  waves  delayed!" 
[34] 


THE  HAND  OF  A  STRANGER 

HE  could  not  see  her  face,  only  her  hair 
Above  the  green  back  of  her  Pullman  chair, 
And  yet  he  felt  profoundly,  the  strange  charm 
Of  one  thin  hand  upon  the  cushioned  arm. 

Oh,  tell-tale  hands!     In  every  line,  we  trace 
Character  often  hidden  in  the  face; 
Or  generous  or  selfish,  cold  or  kind; 
Outlines  and  texture  that  index  the  mind. 


[35] 


TO  A  GOD-CHILD 

AS  some  young  mother,  terror-stricken,  sees 
The  child  that  she  in  agony  has  borne, 
Too   sudden   weaned,  too  harshly  from  her  torn, 
Yet  finds  a  hungry  changeling  at  her  knees, 
And  in  its  greater  need,  forgets  her  grief, 
And  gives  herself  to  it,  and  feels  it  drain 
At  once  away  the  fever  and  the  pain — 
Its  clinging  hands,  its  cool  mouth's  sweet  relief, 
So  holds  it  close,  so  rocks  it  in  her  arms, 
So  watches  it  and  learns  again  to  smile, 
So  counts  in  love  its  ever  growing  charms, 
And  treasures  all  its  graces  infantile — 

Even  I  to  you,  who  in  my  hour  of  need 
Brought  me  your  own  young  thirsty  soul  to  feed. 

******* 

We  met,  and  you  were  but  the  merest  slip 
Of  immaturity,  a  little  shy, 
Appealing  thoughtfulness  in  brow  and  eye, 
And  over-sensitive,  the  chin  and  lip. 
My  mother-mind  a  lonely  spirit  felt, 
And  loneliness  and  youth  companion  ill: 
f36] 


To  a  God-Child 


Though  steeled  the  self-command  and  strong  the  will, 
The  will  must  sometimes  bend,  the  courage  melt. 

A  kinship  riveted,  till  then  unknown; 

A  comfort  doubly  precious,  for  unsought; 

A  friendship  between  bud  and  rose  o'erblown; 

A  benediction  undeserved,  unthought. 


Dear  child  of  choice!     Show  me  your  heart  again- 
My  own  to-night  is  over-charged  with  pain. 


At  times  I  find  your  words  are  over-wise: 
Often  your  judgments  far  out-strip  your  years: 
Those  brown  eyes  see  too  clearly  through  the  tears- 
Strange  tears,  that  in  your  hot  young  heart  arise. 
Why  must  the  load  of  life  your  soul  oppress? 
Burdens  for  older  shoulders  should  not  weigh 
On  you:  these  years,  your  heritage  of  play, 
Will  ripen  all  too  soon  in  earnestness. 

But  I  accept  the  message  you  have  sent 

Yours  is  the  insight,  though  my  head  is  gray. 
In  all  humility  and  good  intent 
I  will,  please  God,  give  youth  "the  right  of  way" — 
Much  that  is  unexpressed,  you  understand: 
On  your  dark  head,  God  lays  his  holy  hand. 
[37] 


THE  MISTLETOE 

A  PARASITE  am  I— the  Mistletoe. 
Idly  I  cling  and  grow 
To  this  great  tree; 
He  struggles  upward  to  the  light 
Sorely  encumbered  day  and  night: 
Broken  and  beaten,  fights  the  fight; 
His  many  scars 
Record  his  wars 

'Gainst    Time,    Storm,    Circumstance   and 
Me. 

The  dear  sun  sees  his  ripened  beauty  be 
Mere  sustenance  for  me, 
For  me,  alone; 

His  life,  his  strength,  his  all,  I  claim; 
His  choicest  branch,  I  lop  and  maim; 
I  crucify  this  mighty  frame — 
Him  hold  I  tight— 
(The  parasite!) 

For  heart  and   mind  and   soul  of   him   I 
own. 

I  am  the  Mistletoe,  and  this  my  prey. 
He  withers  day  by  day, 
[38] 


The  Mistletoe 


A  grewsome  thing 

No  leaves  of  his  with  mine  cogbine 

That  crown  of  living  green  is — mine! 
Above  the  wreck  I  wrought,  I  shine! 
His  lordly  head 

Already  dead 

His  branches  barren,  dry  and  perishing. 

See    how    my    clustering,    pearly    berries 

smile, 

And  fleshy  leaves,  the  while, 
Fatten  on  him. 

His  life,  to  satisfy  my  greed; 
Remorselessly  on  him  I  feed, 

Nor  all  his  giant  wrestlings  heed 

Slowly  he  dies 

A  sacrifice 

To  me — my  passion  and  my  whim. 


[39] 


TO  AN  ADOPTED  CHILD 

•  OU  say  you  came  not  as  my  others  came 

Not  lineal  to  my  blood,  bearing  my  naffle • 

Though  this  be  true, 
Let  it  not  trouble  you. 

Son,   I   have   marked   and   treasured,   day   by   day, 
That  mine,  a  mother-hand,  has  brushed  away — 

(A  happy  thought)  — 

All  pain  had  wrought, 

And  disappointments  harsh,  in  your  young  soul, 
Now  grown  obedient  to  self-control, 

Now  strong  and  clean, 

As  I  have  seen. 

Therefore,   dear  child  of  mine  by  mutual  choice, 
From  open  door  and  purse,  from  hand  and  voice, 

From  heart  and  brain, 

Through  me  you  drain 

Something   to   face   the   world   with,   something   still 
That  feeds  the  heart  and  nerves  anew  the  will, 

That  courage  brings, 

That  works  and  sings. 
[40] 


To  an  Adopted  Child 


While  in  the  flesh  my  others  nearer  stand, 
A  kindred  spirit  from  no  stranger  land 

They  recognize 

A  soul  that  tries 


In  you,  eyes  that  see  clear — courage  that  dares — 
A  brother  born,  and  into  all  that's  theirs, 

Unquestioning   and   true, 

They  welcome  you. 

The  passing  years,  as  slowly  they  unroll, 

Will  bear  you  faithful  witness  that  your  soul 

Is  born  of  me. 

This  is  maternity. 

Many  ffiay  mother  bodies.     To  impress 
Evolving  souls  is  greater  blessedness. 

We  mothers  may 

Work  first  in  clay, 

But  in  that  spirit  stuff,  if  we  are  wise, 
A  finer  medium  must  we  recognize, 

As  artists  know 

When  colors  glow 


On  what  was  but  cold  canvas,  just  drawn  in- 
What  physical  maternity,  we  win 
[41] 


To  an  Adopted  Child 


That  right,  to  work  in  mind. 
So  nuns  may  find 

In  this  so  orphaned  world,  young  things  to  love, 
Hungry  for  home,  their  mother-mind  to  move! 

Without  my  name, 

You  here  I  claim, 

A  child  of  choice,  who  recognized  his  home 

The  door  stood  open  wide,  and  you  have  come — 
And  I  have  won, 


Thank  God — another  son! 


[42] 


GOD'S  BABY 

HIS  head  tipped  back  against  the  cushioned 
chair, 

A  tired  man,  hurrying  soIHewhere 
On  the  Congressional  Express. 

The  electric  lights  reflect  in  two  small  moons 

Upon  his  spectacles. 

He  is  asleep. 

A  gentleman,  no  doubt  a  scholar  too. 

Well-groomed,   clean-shaven, 

With  a  pretty  mouth  now  open  wide 

In  sleep. 

Across  his  brow  a  shadow  falls, 

Some  memory  of  pain,  some  scene  recalled 

To  spoil  a  dream. 

That  passes,  and  the  ghost  of  childhood  steals. 

To  take  its  place — dear  gentle  ghost! 

Smoothing  the  wrinkles  out, 

Touching  a  furrow  back 

Into  the  dimple  that  it  was  long  years  ago 

The  man  looks  like  a  baby! 
God's  baby, 

[43] 


God's  Baby 


God's  big,  bald  baby! 

The  swinging  train  his  cradle, 

The  rumbling  wheels  his  lullaby! 

"Last  call  for  dinner!" 

Briskly  he  rises,  moves  to  the  dining-car- 
I  see  the  empty  sleeve — 
God's  soldier  too. 


[44] 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 
The  Thames  Embankment,  Chelsea,  London. 

IT  seems  that  for  a  moment  you  have  wandered 
From  that  familiar  study  in  Cheyne  Row, 

Where  o'er  so  many  problems  you  have  pondered 

A  quiet  room,  that  all  your  readers  know; 
Its  double  walls  and  ancient  calf-bound  volumes, 
The  photograph  of  Goethe,  on  the  wall — 
Barren  and  still  it  is,  and  cold  and  lonely, 
A  work-shop,  in  which  Thought  is  all  in  all. 

In  shabby  dressing-gown  and  worn  slippers, 
Towards  the  Thames  Embankment  you  have  strayed; 
And  there  you  sit  again,  in  contemplation, 
As  when,  in  life,  around  you  children  played. 
Beneath  your  shaggy  brows  and  tumbled  gray  hair, 
Your  keen  eyes  pierce  through  non-essential  things; 
And  to  the  very  core  of  life,  your  vision 
Swoops,  like  an  eagle  on  unerring  wings. 

Beyond  this  world's  illusions,  hopes  and  failures, 
Beholding  Truth,  in  loveliness  austere; 
Oh!   what  is  left,  but  sad  and  patient  tolerance 
Of  this  poor  world,  to  eyes  that  see  so  clear? 

[45] 


PICCADILLY  "FLOWER-GIRLS" 

THE  shabbiest  of  old  black  sailor  hats, 
The  dingiest  of  shawls, 
This  is  their  uniform. 
Red  faces,  knotted  hands, 
And  leering,  cunning  eyes — 

This  is  the  sisterhood  of — flower-girls 

The  Piccadilly  flower-girls. 


Not  graceful,  young,  alluring, 

As  pictured  in  Romance, 

But  lifting  bloated  faces  to  the  crowds 

Who  hurry  past — 

Halting  the  kindly  ones  with  the  refrain, 

"Buy-buy — my  pretty  Lydy — 

For  the  love  of  God,  sweet  gentleman 

Buy,  buy,  buy,  buy,  buy." 

Age,  rheumatism,  poverty  and  vice 

Stamp  them — who  once  were  innocent  and  young. 

Above  their  fragrant  wares  they  leer  and  grin. 

Their  roses  and  carnations  blush  for  them. 

The  fumes  of  gin 

Defile  their  violets. 

[46] 


Piccadilly  "Flower-Girls" 


The   world   is   gray,   buildings   and  streets,  are 

gray 

The  atmosphere,  heavy  with  smoke  and  fog, 

Is  very  gray. 

Enshrouded  in  gray  shawls, 

With  faces  fiery  red, 

These  coarse  old  women  importune  the  world 

To  take,  from  their  hard  hands, 

Earth's  gift,  most  fair,  most  fragrant, 

And  most  delicate, 

Most  perishable,  perfect  and  most  sweet. 


[47] 


IN  OLD  BRUTON  CHURCHYARD 

WHERE  the  patient  dead  are  sleeping. 
Wander  lovers  fond  and  true; 
O'er  these  graves  no  eyes  are  weeping, 
All  who  wept  are  sleeping  too. 

Mossy  stones,  time-stained  and  broken, 
Mark  the  green  and  level  beds; 
And  love's  precious  vows  are  spoken 
Over  these  forgotten  heads. 

Older,  wiser  eyes  escaping. 
Here  Youth  talks  of  work  and  joy, 
Murmurs  plans  the  future  shaping, 
Maid  to  Shan  and  girl  to  boy. 

A  most  charming  spot  for  lovers! 
Through  the  trees  bird-lovers  flit, 
And  a  girlish  bride  discovers 
Some  old  maxim,  sagely  writ. 

Mingling  with  the  choir's  singing, 
Hear  her  sweet  and  wholesome  laugh, 
Old  brick  walls  the  echo  ringing, 
As  she  reads  this  epitaph: 


In  Old  Bruton  Churchyard 


"LIKE  AS  THE  BUD  NIPT  FROM  THE  TREE, 
So  DEATH  HATH  PARTED  You  AND  ME: 
THEREFORE,  DEAR  SPOUSE,  I  You  BESEECH 
BE  SATISFIED,  FOR  I  AM  RICH." 

Simply  thought  and  crudely  graven, 
This  antique  philosophy 
Spans  the  space  'twixt  earth  and  Heaven, 
Unites  what  was,  is,  and  shall  be. 


[49] 


A  LOST  TALISMAN 

IT  was  but  a  little  nugget  of  gold, 
Found  somewhere  in  a  barren  field 

Dearer  to  her  than  treasure  untold, 
Richer  than  all  that  the  gold  mines  yield. 


Out  of  her  bosom  it  slipped,  and  fell, 
Lost — in  the  depth  of  a  summer  wave! 
Out  of  her  life  slipped — who  can  tell? 
A  dearer  dream  to  a  deeper  grave. 


[50] 


TO  you,  Blind  Boy 
Whom  I  met  to-day 

Let  me  pass  on  the  thought 

Without   delay, 

Which  God  gave  to  me, 

As  I  scanned  your  face: 

Those  eyes,  that  closed  so  suddenly  in  pain, 

Scorched  out  upon  some  hellish  battle-plain, 

Perhaps  have  opened  in  a  sweeter  place 

Than  any  known  to  us: 

To-day  you  see 

With  those  lost  eyes, 

Blind  to  friy  world  and  me, 

Far-reaching  purposes  and  will  of  God. 

With  head  erect  and  valiant  heart, 

You  share 

The  spiritual  visions,  passing  fair, 

Of  all  victorious  ones,  who  kissed  the  rod. 

And  You, 

Whose  hand  can  never  more  caress 
[51] 


Mother  or  child,  the  angels  pause,  to  bless 

You, 

As  they  use  the  hand  you  thought  had  died. 

And  You, 

The  strong-limbed,  laughter-loving,  fleet — 

If  messenger  of  God,  on  your  crushed  feet 

Hurries  some  heavenly  mission  to  fulfill, 

Your  very  crutches 

Have  been  glorified! 


F52] 


IN  A  RIPENING  FIELD 

BY    what    strange    alchemy,   dear    little 
Roots, 

Draw  you  your  sustenance 
From  Earth's  brown  breast? 
By  what  sure  impulse 
Do  you  seek, 
And  find? 

Sucking  the  moisture  like  a  hungry  child. 
Stealing  the  sun,  with  fingers  magical, 
And  all  th'  invisible  sweetness  of  the  air, 
And  rare  strong  gifts 
My  poor  thought  may  not  name? 

Oh,  by  what  synthesis, 

Here  in  your  laboratory  of  green  stalks, 

Combine  so  many  elements  for  good, 

And  turn  the  hidden  treasures 

Of  the  soil 

Into  the  daily  bread  of  all  mankind? 

How  work  this  miracle 

Before  my  eyes? 

Phosphate  and  lime, 
Hydrogen,  carbon,  nitrogen,  become 
[53] 


In  a  Ripening  Field 


Physical  force  and  everlasting  mind. 

Eternal   life 

Blooms,  from  such  roots  as  yours. 

You  stir  my  heart 

With  many  harmonies! 

And  as  the  wind  sways  all  your  golden  heads 

A  blade  of  grass 

Could  strike  me  to  my  knees. 

In  every  stalk  of  you 

I  meet  my  God. 


f54] 


TO  MY  GRAPE-VINE 

MEN  wound  you,  with  their  pruning,  ere  the  Spring 
Starts  your  young  blood  anew; 
Unmerciful  and  harsh  it  seems,  the  thing 
Their  keen  blades  do  to  you. 

May  comes,  and  all  your  climbing  sap  runs  sweet 

The  rough  bark  under; 
Sending  young  shoots,  like  eager  hands  and  feet 

Intent  on  plunder. 

June  comes,  and  in  your  foliaged  cool  recesses 

The  pale  abundant  bloom 
Promises  all  the  purple  fruit,  that  blesses 

The  harvest  days  to  come. 


Through  summer  suns  it  ever  grows  more  precious, 

And  scented  leaves  protect 
And  screen  the  burden,  daily  more  delicious, 

Your  clusters,  sun-beflecked. 
[55] 


To  My  Grape-Vine 


October  finds  your  hard-won  treasure  ravished. 

Naked  and  sear  and  torn 
You  stand.    Where  is  the  love  that  you  have  lavished? 

The  fruit,  that  you  have  borne? 


[56] 


TO  MY  SISTER 

WHEN  we  were  children, 
You  and  I, 
And  the  days  danced 
Innocently  by, 
How  all  unthought 
Were  Pain  and  Sin! 
Night  came:  our  Mother 
"Tucked  us  in," 
And  the  friendly  stars 
Winked  from  the  skies, 
And  all  our  songs 
Were  lullabies. 

When  we  were  girls, 
Gray-eyed  and  slim, 
Life's  song  was  a  lyric, 

Or  a  hymn 

The  tragic  notes 

Were  still  unknown, 

And  the  foreboding 

Undertone. 

We  worshipped  and  dreamed, 

In  gardens  dim, 

[57] 


To  My  Sister 


Of  a  love  that  should  fill  life 
To  the  brim. 

When  strong  emotions 

Ebbed  and  flowed, 

And  Anguish 

All  her  gifts  bestowed, 

In  birth,   death,  change, 

The  spirit  saw 

Of  Pain 

The  over-ruling  law; 

Forces  that  beat  us 

To  our  knees. 

Epics  were  wrung 

From  years  like  these. 

Now  one  by  one 

Each  song  has  died, 

Leaving  the  soul 

Unsatisfied, 

Yet  ever  striving 

To    express 

Some  still  un-voiced 

Inwardness. 

Blessed,  sanctified, 

Through  each  of  them, 

It  grandly  chants 

Its   Requiem. 

[58] 


WORSHIP 

HAVE  you  builded  an  altar,  Brother  mine, 
To  a  God  Unknown? 
Adorned  it  fair  with  fancies  rare 

And  precious  stone? 
Wrought  out  its  pattern  with  fervent  skill 

And  young  delight? 

Brought  from  far  lands  with  tender  hands 
Its  gold  and  white? 

Have  you  lifted  the  soul  of  you,  Brother  mine, 

To  a  thing  afar? 
Have  you  felt  it  smile  on  your  pain  the  while 

Like  a  friendly  star? 
Then  know  that  each  gem  you  set  in  love, 

Each  step  you  trod, 
Each  reverent  care,  each  faltered  prayer, 

Led  you  to  God. 


[59] 


THE  SOUL  OF  YOUR  MOTHER 

NO  stormy  beating  of  a  tide 
Wrecking  itself  with  futile  roar, 
But  calmest  flood,  unruffled,  wide, 
A  generous  River,  flowing  o'er. 

No  fragile  flower,  to  droop  and  die, 
Transplanted  to  a  harsher  clime; 
But  searching  root,  crest  lifted  high, 
To  face  its  fate  or  bide  its  time. 

No  transient  beauty  of  a  flame, 
But  far,  clear  splendor  of  a  star; 
Nor  needing  praise,  nor  fearing  blame; 
The  perfect  Thing  no  change  can  mar. 


[60] 


EVEN  SO 

AS  star-light  on  the  desert's  va.ste, 
As  rare  thought  spoken  to  a  fe-  ol, 
As  jewel  thrown  in  stagnant  >ool, 
Even  so  is  love,  Love,  when  nis-placer/J. 

I 

As  beacon  light  o'er  treacherous  sea; 
To  new-sown  seed,  as  summer  rain; 
As  sunshine  is  to  ripening  grain., 
Such  is  vour  love  and  more,  to  me. 


[61] 


OUT  OF  THE  DUST 

AWV  >mau  of  the  street  is  passing  by; 
I1  ?owder and  paint  have  toughened  her  fair  skin; 
Her  ss  icred  baom  bare  to  every  eye, 
(Foun  tain  of  rholesome  life  that  should  have  been!) 
With  i  lagging  step  she  plies  her  dreary  trade; 
Her  01  ice  fine  draperies  are  soiled  and  thin; 
Excess  t?nd  \Kant,  grim  rivals!     These  have  made 
Guide-posts  for  her  into  the  paths  of  sin. 

A  younger  sister  at  her  side  keeps  pace; 
So  pretty!     And  so  strong  of  limb,  and  vain! 
Sorrow  and  sin  have  left  as  yet  no  trace 
On  cheek  or  lip,  or  seared  her  silly  brain. 
Waste  not  your  pity — she  enjoys  the  game! 
She  may  be  loving  daughter,  loyal  friend; 
Her  tragedy  lies  not  in  open  shame, 
But  in  bright  beauty  burning  to  its  end. 

No  scruples  worry  her;  her  candle  still 
Burns  merrily  both  ends,  though  flickering  low; 
Excitement,  dissipation,  folly,  will 
Soon  dig  her  little  grave,  and  she  will  go 
f62] 


Out  of  the  Dust 


Blown  as  before  the  gale,  the  fallen  leaf 

Gone — as  the  odor  of  a  once  fresh  flower; 
Death  soon  will  bind  her  in  his  harvest  sheaf, 
Honestly  sinning  through  her  youth's  short  hour. 


The  crucifix  that  hangs  above  their  beds 

Looks  calmly  down  on  their  debauchery; 

Keeps  faithful  watch  o'er  their  dishonored  he'ids, 

Purging  their  souls  with  mystic  charity. 

These  children  of  our  Father,  though  they  stray 

Far  from  the  narrow  path  their  feet  should  keep, 

These  daughters  of  a  king,  know  how  to  pray 

And  o'er  their  failures  Heaven's  angels  weep. 


[63] 


BABBLING  OF  GREEN  FIELDS 

l~\f  0  VDWAY  or  Leicester  Square — it  matters  not, 

A.     ;      old  man  lies  on  an  untidy  couch. 

H    .    .-  •.:,  expressive  once  and  finely  cut, 

B  the  countenance  of  the  chronic  Grouch, 

G       glided,  fallen: 

the  little  veins, 

A  purple  net-work  like  a  railroad  map 
On  nose  and  cheek,  have  turned  a  deeper  gray. 

He  does  his  final  "turn"  to-night,  poor  chap 

A  worn-out  old  comedian,  you  would  say. 
Night  falls. 

He  neither  hears  nor  heeds  the  noise 
Of  children  in  the  darkening  street  below. 
Pale  little  girls  and  rascally  small  boys 
Fighting  or  playing  in  the  week-old  snow. 


He  hears  a  twittering, 

Of  birds  that  flit 

And  flutter  (are  green  branches 

O'er  him  bent?) 

Chirping  and  carolling 

In  woods  sun-lit: 

f64] 


Babbling  of  Green  Fields 


A  far-away  suggestion 
Of  content 

He  hears  the  distant  gurgle 

Of  a  brook 

He  knows  the  sweet  sound  well, 

Knows  well  the  spot 

Where,  fretting  'gainst  a  pebbly  shoal 

Or  rock, 

Crossing  his  father's  old  green 

Pasture  lot, 

The  stream  grows  petulant 

Along  its  way. 

But  in  an  instant, 

Its  small  anger  spent, 

It  bubbles  on, 

To-day  as  yesterday, 

Singing  around  all  obstacles, 

Content. 


The  Janitor  comes  in,  to  bring  the  bill. 
He  stands  quite  thoughtful,  staring  at  the  bed. 
"B'  God!     Ye  looks  fer  this,  in  vaudeville," 
He  says,  as  dubiously  he  shakes  his  head. 
"And  here's  the  steam,  a-whizzling — I  think 

Escapin',  with  a  waste  to  thry  a  saint 

f65] 


Babbling  of  Green  Fields 


He's  left  the  waiter  rinnin'  in  the  sink — 

I'll  make  a  light.    The  Meter's  out.    There  aint 

A  penny  in  his  pocket  for  the  slot. 

An'  hear  'im  talk — o'  rinnin'  brooks — and  burrds 

And  blossoms  over-head — and  God  knows  wot — 

I  call  that  too  nonsinsical  for  worrds " 


Yet  with  a  tender  hand  he  smoothes  the  sheet, 
And  spreads  a  blanket  o'er  the  icy  feet. 


NOT  WHILE  THE  RIVER  FLOWS 

CLAIM  her,  Oh,  River!  wonderful  Lover! 
Drag  to  thy  deepest,  encompass  her,  cover 
All  of  her  weakness,  her  burden  of  pain; 
Fold  her,  enwrap  her,  rock  her  to  sleep, 
Hide  her  and  cover  her  deep,  deep,  deep, 
With  all  of  her  heartaches,  her  striving  and  strain. 


Silent  and  cool  is  the  bed  of  the  River: 
Past  all  the  passion,  the  fret  and  the  fever, 
Done  with  life's  drudgery,  there  would  she  lie. 
Deaf  to  the  surging  of  waters  above  her, 
Lost  to  the  voices  that  chide  her  or  love  her, 
Spared  all  the  effort,  a  world  passing  by. 


Hot  throbbing  pulses  arrested  and  chilled, 
Brick-bruised  feet  to  be  smoother  out  and  stilled: 
Oh,  merciful  River!  gently  receive  her! 
Bury  each  sorrow,  each  memory  stirred, 
Each  clinging  regret,  each  longing  deferred, 
With  thee,  out  of  sight,  may  each  haunting  fear  leave 
her! 

[67] 


Not  While  the  River  Flows 


Take  the  brave  blood,  where  the  fire  of  her  dances — 
The    quick,    burning   brain,    with    its   teeming   sweet 

fancies, 
(Though   the   flesh   of  her  falters,   the   heart   of  her 

fights) 

Now  once  for  all,  to  escape  the  confusions, 
Peaceful  to  lie,  with  her  own  dear  illusions, 
To  find,  in  thy  arms,  all  her  depths  and  her  heights! 


[68] 


FROM  ROOM  310 
PROVIDENCE  HOSPITAL,  WASHINGTON 

UPON  her  snowy  cot,  propped  up  on  pillows 
My  darling  lies, 
Her  great  soft  eyes 

Following  the  sky-line  over  rippling  billows 
Of  Autumn  foliage,  russet  gold  and  green. 

Standing  for  right  and  human  brotherhood, 
The  world's  great  temple  of  Democracy, 
Far-reaching  in  its  purposes  of  good, 
Staunch  in  its  broad  and  generous  policy, 
The  Nation's  Capitol:  its  gray  dome  shining, 

(While  the  world  reads) 

For  Freedom  pleads, 
Fair  play  and  Liberty  boldly  defining — 
Fit  emblem  of  the  PRESENT  it  is  seen. 

******* 

The  Library,  its  golden  crown  up-lifting, 

For  Culture  stands: 

All  ages,  lands 

Pour  in  their  riches,  which  its  wise  are  sifting, 
That  to  our  children's  children,  may  be  brought 
[69] 


From  Room  310 


Knowledge:   their  treasure-house  of  what  is  PAST; 
Housing  the  legacies  of  all  man's  thought; 
The  wisdom,  weighed  and  tested,  that  shall  last 
When  much  has  perished  which  we  dearly  bought. 

*»*          +          **• 

And  third,  its  cross  borne  high,  an  old  church  tower, 

Piercing  the  blue 

Between  these  two, 
Bears  witness  to  the  spiritual  Power 
Eternal,  and  a  FUTURE  sure,  serene. 

Law,  Learning  and  Religion;  lofty  three, 

Facing  my  child  across  the  tree-tops  green; 

Oh  God!     Those  dying  eyes  have  faith  to  see, 

And  soul  to  know  what  these  fair  symbols  mean — 

Thank  God,  her  innocent,  far-reaching  mind, 

Can  daily  inspiration  give,  and  find! 


[70] 


MY  DAUGHTER 

AGAINST  the  open  window 
In  silhouette  sits  she, 
And  her  slender  fingers  wander 
From  ivory  key  to  key. 

Her  little  piquant  profile 
Outlined  'gainst  April  green 
Beneath  her  filmy  boudoir-cap 
Her  soft  dark  hair  is  seen. 

'Tis  thus,  this  sweet  spring  Booming, 
In  her  flower'd  soft  kimono 
Singing  her  old-time  melodies 
To  you,  dear  friend,  I've  shown  her! 

*Tis  thus  my  spirit  sees  her, 
In  girlish,  graceful  guise, 
Her  capable  sweet  fingers — 
Her  wistful,  star-like  eyes — 


In  song  the  dear  lips  parted- 
Young  hope  in  every  breath- 
Intangible,  but  living 
That  life  we  mis-call  death. 
[71] 


TO  DEATH 

WELL  met,  oh  Death!    Old  Friend!     Well 
met 

In  this  night's  storm  and  blustering  weather! 
The  whole  wide  world  with  tears  is  wet 
Since  we  a  vigil  kept  together. 
The  avenging  angel  passing  by 
Marks  many  first-born  sons  to  die. 

I  find  you  changed — You  bow  your  head; 
Your  back  is  bent — Your  strong  hands  tremble. 
Death  should  rejoice  in  such  brave  Dead 
As  the  good  host  that  you  assemble. 
These  chosen  souls,  in  your  command! 
This  army,  for  the  spirit-land! 

On  toll  of  Age,  and  slow  disease 

You  need  not  wait  for  your  recruiting. 

Genius  invents  new  ways  than  these — 

The  burning,  poisoning,  drowning,  shooting — 

Thus  shall  your  gray  battalions  grow. 

Thus,  shall  your  serried  ranks  o'er-flow. 

Oh,  Over-burdened  and  most  Wise! 
Man's  kindest  friend,  most  tender  lover! 
[72] 


To  Death 


With  depths  of  percy  in  your  eyes, 
Spreading  o'er  sin  a  sacred  cover; 
Opening  the  way  to  worthy  toil, 
Sealing  the  Past  in  silence  deep, 
Filling  with  what  immortal  oil 
The  lamp  God  gave  each  soul  to  keep! 

Wiping  out  sorrow  with  a  breath 

Well  met,  oh  dear  and  weary  Death! 
"Eloquent,  just  and  mighty  Death!" 


PERSPECTIVE. 

DIM  distances  of  purple  hills, 
Seen  through  a  veil  of  summer  air, 
Disturbing  details  lost  in  mist, 
And  what  is  clear,  most  wondrous  fair 


So  are  the  years,  kind,  lovely  years, 
Of  which  the  poet  seldom  sings, 
The  years  that  bring  the  bird's-eye  view, 
Dispassionate,  of  earthly  things. 

Sweet  years,  in  which  we  cease  to  war 
'Gainst  primal  instincts,  selfish  sin — 
Great  years,  that  in  perspective  place 
Trifles  that  were,  or  might  have  been. 

Still  in  the  world,  still  of  the  world, 
Still  full  of  joy  in  youth  and  spring, 
With  keener  faculties  of  mind, 
And  love  become  a  sexless  thing — 


Sexless  and  selfless — so,  a  tool 
For  little  miracles  each  day — 


Perspective 

Time,  when  the  soul,  with  clearer  sense, 
Its  long-loved  idols,  each  may  weigh — 


Are  glimpses  of  the  great  Beyond 
Now  opened  to  us — tenderly? 
And  can  it  be,  sometimes  we  hear 
Far  ripples  of  th'  eternal  sea? 


[75] 


COULD  I  HAVE  KNOWN 

COULD  I  have  known  how  brief  your  years,  my 
Treasure, 

I  had  relaxed  in  many  a  little  way; 
Asked  less  of  tender  immaturity, 
Given  more  gifts  and  longer  hours  of  play, 
Could  I  have  known  how  short  would  be  your  stay. 

Those  little  disciplines  and  self-denials 
Oppress  my  heart  as  blasphemies  to-day; 
I  pictured  you  mother  of  many  children, 
And  sought  to  strengthen  you  along  the  way 
Of  this  crude  world,  in  which  you  did  not  stay. 

Perhaps  in  zeal  for  all  the  years  approaching, 

Maternal  pride  (for  which  God  hears  me  groan) 

Blind  consecration  to  a  far-off  future, 

I  pictured  you  as  a  fair  corner-stone, 

And  dreamed  the  building's  plan  was  all  my  own! 

The  Master-builder  planned.     The  great  Designer 
Whose  purposes  my  poor  faith  could  not  read, 
Reached   a   strong  hand   and   claimed    what   he   had 
loaned  me, 


Could  I  Have  Known 


Bidding  it  answer  to  a  nobler  need, 
Beyond  my  vision,  futile  dreams  or  creed. 

Mine  was  the  earthly  thought,  mine  was  the  error; 
All  things  obscure  are  clear  to-day  to  you. 

You  love  me.    God  forgives  my  human  blunders 

Perhaps  his  tests  prove  my  foundation  true 

Perhaps  I  builded  better  than  I  knew. 


[77] 


TO  ONE  INVISIBLE 

YOU  have  escaped  the  years  of  disillusion, 
Faded,  tear-furrowed  cheek  and  whitened  hair, 
The  dreams  and  hopes  that  end  but  in  confusion, 
And  heart-aches,  harvest  of  right  faithful   care — 

(Oh,  little  One  with  God,  remember  me.) 

You  did  not  wait  to  see  the  buds  of  April 
Bloom,  fade  and  fall  and  settle  to  decay; 
Nor  rosy  skies  of  early  summer  day,  spill 
Each  radiant  hour,  and  turn  to  ashen  gray. 

(Oh,  sweet,  immortal  Youth,  remember  me.) 

You  will  not  stand  by  open  graves  of  daughters 
You  longed  to  see  with  babies  at  the  breast; 
Nor  stem  a  tide  of  ever-deepening  waters, 
Nor  passionately  plead  with  God  for  rest — 

(Oh,  Life  grown  perfect  there,  remember  me.) 

So  day  by  day,  my  Darling,  God  grows  dearer 
For  every   glimpse  through   you   vouchsafed  to  me, 
[78] 


To  One  Invisible 


You  live  in  Him,  and  I,  even  I,  am  sharer 
In  all  rare  services  I  may  not  see. 

(Oh,  free  and  valiant  Soul,  remember — me.) 


[79] 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

IN  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death." 
I  have  stood  knee-deep  in  death 
To-day, 

As  there  fell  to  my  feet 
The  roses  sweet 

That  I  trimmed  from  their  stalks, 
In  brown  decay. 
The  million  buds 
Which  a  week  ago 
Unfolded  blushing  one  by  one, 
Fragrant  and  fair, 
Each  heart   laid  bare 
To  rain  and  wind  and  dew  and  sun. 

In  the  midst  of  "Death"  we  are  in  life! 

High  over-head  in  the  sky  of  blue, 

Though  veiled  in  cloud, 

There  thrills  aloud 

A    lark's    note,    piercing    my    dull    heart 

through ! 
And  the  locusts, 
Seventeen  years  asleep, 


Life  and  Death 


How  they  beat,   with  an  air-ship's   mighty 

hum, 

As  they  serenade  their  Pharaoh  dead, 
In  mad  delight 
That  their  day  has  come! 

This  is  a  song  from  a  garden  green, 

Where  hand  in  hand 

(As  doubt  and  faith,  as  peace  and  strife) 

Walk  life  and  death 

Yea,  side  by  side, 
As  Love  and  Bride, 
Walk  Death  and  Life. 

This  is  a  song  of  a  summer  day, 
Sung  by  the  wind  to  the  answering  reeds, 
Truer  than  all  of  the  cruel  creeds, 
That  Life  is  Death  and  Death  is  Life, 
And  that  God  is  all  that  the  spirit  needs. 


f81] 


UNITY 

MAN  plants  his  gardens  far  and  thick, 
Builds  up  his  homes  of  dull  red  brick. 
Of  marble  white,  of  granite  gray; 
His  clubs  and  universities, 
His  temples  where  he  tries  to  pray. 
Poor  faulty  clod! 
He  tries  to  pray! 
God 

Pours  his  sunshine  down  on  these, 
God  spreads  his  glowing  skies  above, 
God  sows,  broad-cast,  the  seeds  of  love, 
God  gives  the  wealth  of  all  the  trees. 

As  evening  falls,  distinctions  fade; 
Brick,  granite,  marble,  take  one  shade; 
The  jarring  thoughts  of  many  men, 
Their  warring  animosities, 
Are  gathered  all  in  tone  again — 
The  details  lost, 
In  tone  again — 
God 

Speaks  at  eve,  to  all  of  these; 
God's  still,  small  voice,  in  twilight  hour. 
[82] 


Unity 


Commands  us  with  paternal  power, 
To  note  the  leaves  on  all  his  trees. 

Each  has  its  own  identity, 

Yet  all  exist  in  harmony; 

Whatever  discords  storms  may  breed, 

In  spite  of  all  complexities, 

Race  draws  to  race  and  creed  to  creed; 

Race  draws  to  race, 

And  creed  to  creed; 

God 

Binds  in  one  our  theories; 

Humanity,  in  every  land, 

One — in  the  shadow  of  God's  hand 

One — as  the  leaves  on  all  his  trees. 


F83] 


w 


AN  INVITATION 

ILL  you  come  with  me  to  my  open  spaces, 
And  share  my  stretch  of  sky,  my  rolling 
hills? 


There  are  some  quiet  places 

In  my  kingdom 

Peace  sits  upon  my  everlasting  hills; 
And  the  Beyond  is  ever  beckoning  to  us: 
Between  the  trees,  the  distances  invite 
The  soul  to  ever  wider  journeyings. 

My  Trees, 

Aristocrats,  Conquerors  of  Pain, 

My  trees  will  speak  to  you 

As  long  ago  they  spoke 

To  One  sore-pressed,  in  sad  Gethsemane; 

Will  show  you  the  eternal  laws  that  rule  them, 

And  teach  you  how,  despite  all  circumstance, 

Storm  and  Disease  and  Parasite  and  Hunger, 

They  bear  themselves  erect, 

Steadfast  to  seek  their  highest. 

My  Weeds, 

My  dear  plebeian  weeds, 
[84] 


An  Invitation 


Will  smile  at  you  from  unexpected  corners, 

Proving  the  beauty  of  the  common  thing; 

Will  give  their  all, 

Nor  know  how  poor  their  all  is, 

Ask  no  return, 

Not  one  caress  in  passing, 

Even  from  your  careless  feet. 

They  are  "the  roses  of  the  wilderness," 

True  to  Isaiah's  ancient  prophecy: 

They  are  the  ephemeral  "grasses  of  a  day," 

Immortalized  in  David's  minstrelsy: 

They  are  "the  lilies  of  the  field,"  which  met 

The  calm,  observant,  kindly  eyes  of  Jesus. 

My  Birds, 

My  harmless  ones, 

Destined  to  swift  and  certain  tragedy, 

My  birds  will  be  your  friends! 

My  pair  of  blue-birds, 

With  breasts  brown  as  the  up-turned  soil 

And  wings 

Blue  as  the  unclouded  skies,  will  tell  you 

How  heaven  and  earth  may  meet 

In  one  small  life! 

My  crested  cardinal 

Will  sing  his  love-song 

Such  madrigal  as  you  have  never  heard! 
[85] 


An  Invitation 


My  stars, 

My  sweet  eternal  stars, 

Will  shine  for  you  as  long  ago  they  shone 

O'er  Bethlehem — 

Will  lead  you  to  the  thing  you  too 

Are  seeking — 

Shine  for  you — 

Shine  for  you 

Till  all  the  stars  of  all  the  heavens  are  yours! 

Will  you  come  with  me, 

To  my  open  spaces, 

And  share  my  stretch  of  sky,  my  rolling  hills? 


[86] 


NEW  FIELDS  AND  FAIR 

OH,  tell  me  not,  dear  Friends, 
That  Death  is  Rest: 
It  is  not  rest  I  crave: 
Rather  I  ask  to  do  and  be,  my  best 
Beyond  the  grave. 

Tell  me  my  passing  out  from  things  of  earth 
Is  death  to  sense  and  sin, 
But  a  new  birth  to  Righteousness: 
Tell  me  my  life  may  be 
Sacred  and  fervent  there,  in  nobler  energy: 
Tell  me 

That  all  untrammeled,  I  may  move 
Wherever  led  by  loyalty  and  love! 
Tell  me 

This  soul,  from  mortal  bondage  free, 
May  find  new  fields  and  fair; 
New  Opportunity. 

Rid  of  the  freight  of  blood  and  sense  and  nerve, 
Unweariedly  to  labor  and  to  serve. 
I  need  no  rest: 
I  only  ask  to  be  above  defeat: 
Rich — in  vitality. 

T87] 


New  Fields  and  Fair 


Oh,  tell  me  not,  dear  Friends, 

That  Death  is  Sleep: 

For  sleep  could  only  mean 

Lost  Power: 

So,  for  me,  no  slumber  deep 

Beneath  fresh  boughs  of  green! 

My  garments  you  may  tenderly  lay  by- 

My  body  too, 

But,  oh,  that  is  not  I! 


I  shall  escape,  as  wild  bird  from  the  mesh, 

When  I  have  laid  aside  this  cloak  of  flesh! 

I  shall  be  up  and  doing! 

I  shall  find 

New,  golden  chances  for  my  busy  mind! 

New  souls  to  love 

Old  friends,  to  serve  and  bless 

When  I  am  born  anew,  to  Righteousness! 
When  I  am  strong  and  clean,  and  fit  to  be 
God's  servant  to  my  kind, 
Eternally. 


[88] 


SHALL  I  LEARN  FEAR? 

AND  shall  I  weaken? 
I,  who  am  part  of  all  that  is, 
I,  in  whose  veins  run  strong  adevnturous  gifts 
From  knight  and  pioneer  and  old  Crusader? 
Shall  I  learn  Fear 
First,  when  my  head  is  white? 

(Yet  they  who  dread  no  sudden  agony, 

Who  laugh  in  treachery's  face, 

Meet  smilingly 

Death,  battle-field,  child-birth  or  swift  disaster, 

Shrink  from  the  thought  of  gallant  blood  grown  chill, 

Of  days  inactive  and  of  slow  decay). 

Then  must  I  weaken? 
Safe-guarded  by  the  goodness  of  my  God, 
And  fortified  by  beautiful  example, 
I,  whose  vast  heritage 

Is  all  the  world  and  all  of  man's  achievement, 
All  generous  deeds,  free  speech  and  honest  thought? 
I,  unto  whom  are  given 
The  kisses  of  young  children,  and  the  faith 
Of  men  and  women  nobler  than  myself? 
[89] 


Shall  I  Learn  Fear? 


The  fields  of  green  and  gold, 

The  autufnn's  somber  glory, 

Still  waters,  silent  woods  and  open  seas, 

And  all  the  stretches  of  the  starry  skies? 

I,  whose  poor  blundering  steps 

Dear  angels  watch,  lest  I,  even  such  as  I, 

Should  harm  the  human  brother  I  would  serve, 

Or  bruise  my  heedless  feet  against  the  stone! 

To  weaken? 

When  the  race  is  nearly  run? 

When  swallowed  up  in  distances  behind  me 

Lie  all  the  jungles  where  my  youth  was  torn 

By  flowering  thorny  impulses  like  tropic  vines 

Entangled,  the  poisonous  with  the  pure — 

And  stony  hill-sides  of  experience, 

So  hard  to  climb! 

Splendid,  when  from  the  summits 

The  soul  looks  back  along  the  way  it  journeyed, 

To  valleys  wrapped  in  mist. 

Dear  God, 
I  shall  not  weaken. 
Obediently  I  come,  bringing  my  best, 
The  gold  of  all  the  good  Thou  gavest  me! 
With  this  small  house  of  clay,  which  housed  my  soul, 
(And  I  have  loved  it — it  has  been  my  friend) 
[90] 


Shall  I  Learn  Fear? 


I  leave  the  self  less  worthy,  and  to  Thee 

Bring  but  that  better  part. 

Lord, 

Let  it  be  a  tool 

Within  Thy  hand. 


[91] 


£    5 

~^.  .or.*-'  I   I*-  .• 

^ 


§•  f-»^         rS    _»m^ 

i:\  ~^*¥*  ~ 


LIBRARY 


11: 

55.  ,~~ •  »     I 


•So 

3\\V 


OKfUDHi/yi    (/x  .  ,-..> 

i?  1  ir-"  s      S- 


Is      ± 


L  005  488  900  1 

DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  724  002     1 


% 


•^>' 


